


Comfortable

by Yuliares



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Has Issues (Good Omens), Domestic, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), he's working on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29599500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares
Summary: It’s strange, how a thousand lifetimes of anticipating the worst can become familiar. How you might miss it, if it were suddenly gone.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Comfortable

**Author's Note:**

> This short snippet ambushed me and demanded to be written. I'm soft for these fools.

The thing about Hell is: you’re always uncomfortable. Your bones are going the wrong way, or there’s a pebble in your shoe. Maybe there’s just a bad smell that seems to follow you around, no matter how many times you check your shoes for dog shit.

And even when you leave Hell, and go up above, there’s always this sense of _dread_. As if whatever small (or not so small) unpleasantness you left behind is lurking around the corner, or slowly stalking your trail, and it’s only a matter of time before it catches up with you.

Armageddon had come for Crowley, the all-consuming nightmare that he’d spent his entire existence on Earth dodging, ducking and weaving.

And then… it didn’t. And when the Angels had come for him (for Aziraphael, really) and Hell had demanded recompense, somehow they _got away with it_.

Which leads to... now, Crowley lounging on the couch, warm sunlight pooling around him. Aziraphael had declared they needed a holiday, and now they share a country cottage on the edge of a lovely little tourist town. They stay up late drinking wine and reminiscing, and Crowley wakes up to birdsong and their elderly neighbors spreading the most _slanderous_ gossip and three eggs for breakfast, because Aziraphael saw a cooking advertisement for making scrambled eggs with some newfangled pan and somehow got it into his head _this,_ of all things, was Crowley’s favorite food.

(It is. He’ll never ever admit it. He groans when Aziraphael hands him the plate, wearing a ridiculous frilly apron and beaming.)

It’s strange, how a thousand lifetimes of anticipating the worst can become familiar. How you might miss it, if it were suddenly gone. 

Crowley is perfectly comfortable, on this couch, in the sunshine. But with a little squirming, it’s pretty easy to jam one knee up a little too high, and for a beam of sunlight to fall across his eyes, making him wince and slam his eyes shut. He throws an arm over his eyes, to block it out, and now that’s thrown his weight off balance, torso twisted and taunt, lest he topple out of the couch entirely. There’s an unpleasant twinge in his side, and he resolves to hold it for as long as he can.

The sun shifts across his face as the hours pass.

“My dear, that cannot be comfortable,” says Aziraphael’s voice, and the couch dips with weight as a gentle but firm hand readjusts Crowley’s knee.

“Ngkk,” gasps Crowley, eyes snapping open as all the blood rushes back into his leg, a thousand small prickling fires that make his entire body convulse. Only Aziraphael, now perched on the edge of the couch, prevents his tumble to the floor.

“Really now,” scolds Aziraphael. “If you just lay down normally, this wouldn’t be an issue.”

“S’not an issue,” says Crowley, gritting his teeth as another round of pins and needles has him twitching, nerves suddenly flush with sensation.

“It is an issue,” says Azirphale pragmatically, “If it renders you unable to walk. It’s a lovely evening, I thought we could take a stroll through the park on our way to dinner. We’d best leave soon, or we’ll be late for our reservation.”

And with that, Azirphael stands, and turns to offer Crowley his hand.

“Well,” says Crowley, letting Aziraphael haul the bulk of his weight upright, balancing on one leg to give the other one last shake. He doubts Aziraphael even notices, given the ease with which he hefts those bloody books stacks of his single-handed. “Can’t have that.”

“Should we get a different couch?” Aziraphael asks abruptly.

“Eh?”

“I want you to be comfortable, my dear. If this one isn’t doing the job-”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “The couch is fine.”

“But your leg-”

“S’fine, Angel,” says Crowley, and tucks Aziraphael’s hand under his arm, uses it to lead him towards the door. “M’just... getting used to it. Now, where are we going? I don’t remember.”

“Oh!” says Aziraphael brightly, as they walk out the front door and towards town. “It’s a new restaurant - I hear they have a beautiful _cassolette de poisson_ , and an excellent wine-pairing-”

Crowley shuts the door behind them with a wave of his hand, Aziraphael already too distracted with reciting the three different reviews he’d looked up, familiar words pouring out like a fine wine. His eyes are bright, and he tugs Crowley a bit closer in his excitement, a warm and steady presence at his side as they stroll, arm in arm, down the street.

It’s… comfortable.

He’s getting used to it.


End file.
